


There's Only This

by Amatara



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Backstory, Bonding, Character Study, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 02:25:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12901953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amatara/pseuds/Amatara
Summary: Sometimes the only choices you have are bad ones, but you still have to choose.Aka some things that never happened to Paul Stamets in this universe and some things that did. Up to you to decide which ones are which.





	There's Only This

*

“Paul.” The big, weathered hand hovers above his shoulder, wavers for a moment and then presses down. “Son…”

“Don’t.” Paul shakes off the touch like it burns him, his body curling in on itself. He wants to run, get out from under those probing eyes, but his legs are lead and the chair he’s in faces the window so he can’t escape the reflection staring him down. “Don’t call me son,” he grates, and averts his face.

“Okay,” his stepdad says, taking a step back, and the ease with which he just gave in makes Paul look up at him and frown. This isn’t how things are supposed to go. He’s angry and upset and lashing out, and for his anger to just bounce off the target like he didn’t just say something with the intention to hurt makes Paul swallow down a rush of guilt. Just for a second, though. Then his frustration wins out again and he shrugs, clenching his jaw hard enough it aches.

“It’s not okay,” he says, his voice a sullen mumble. His foot is itching, but he doesn’t have the strength to lift his leg and rub it, so he just grits his teeth and hopes for it to stop. He’s broken, and useless, and nothing anyone can say will change that now.

Behind him, a pair of booted feet shuffles against the floor. “The doctors said you’ll make a full recovery. They said it’d take time, but -”

“That’s not what they said,” Paul cuts him off. There’s nothing he wants more than to close his eyes and pretend all of this will go away, but the second he does he remembers the fall - remembers coming out of the pirouette, too fast, his feet meeting only air where the antigrav field should be, fingers slipping out of his partner’s hand.

He can’t recall hitting the ground. Just those few terror-filled seconds of careening towards it with the song on his lips curdling into a scream.

Tears are pooling behind his eyes, but he scrubs them away with the back of his hand. Premiere night was going to be tomorrow. Better not think about it anymore.

“Well…” his stepdad says, sounding so cautiously diplomatic that Paul feels like screaming out loud. “I remember they said you’ll be walking again in no time. That in a few years, you won’t even notice the difference.”

“But I wanna…” Paul says, then chokes on his tears; no, no, no, he’s not going to cry about this. “I wanna dance again,” he whispers, blinking down at his crippled legs. “A year of treatments, they said, but they also said the limbs will always be fragile, and anyway, losing a whole year is… I’ll never make a career of it now, and I - I wanted…” His heart is pounding in the little hollow at the base of his throat. “I promised dad…”

“Ah.” Low exhale of air, barely even a word. There’s a long silence, one that’s only broken by a subtly cleared throat. “Want to talk about it?”

“N… no.” But maybe that’s a lie. Part of him is desperate to tune out the conversation - he’s sixteen and he doesn’t need anyone’s comfort, he’ll take care of himself like he’s always done - but the other part, the part of him that doesn’t feel sixteen at all, is desperate to get it all off his chest. “After dad got sick… he couldn’t play anymore 'cause of the tremors, and he was so happy that I… that I was going to be an artist, like him. He said I was born for it, that I…” His voice cracks, his body shaking with the effort to hold it all in. Every moment, he’s expecting a hand on his shoulder again, well-intentioned but deeply unwelcome, and it’s only when the seconds tick by and it doesn’t happen that he slowly dares to relax.

“I see.” Again that impossibly diplomatic tone - one of the things they teach you in Starfleet, Paul guesses. He never did like Starfleet much. “Your dad loved you a lot, didn’t he?”

Paul nods brokenly. “Yes.”

“Mm.” Thoughtful silence. “And he took pride in you becoming an artist.”

Another nod, followed by a breath that hurts his throat. “Yes.”

“And you’re afraid you can’t be that anymore?” His stepdad’s eyes aren’t meeting Paul’s in the window; instead they’re fixed on the flickering neon signs outside. “What are you good at, Paul?”

“I’m…” Paul stammers, taken aback by the question. All he’s ever been told is that he's good at _everything_ : music, maths, language, science. Good at everything and therefore nothing at all, which was why he’d thrown himself at dancing with such vigor because there, at least, he could make a difference. Do something that would’ve made his father proud. “I’m good at music,” he mumbles. “Music, and…” He can’t go on. Saying it out loud just makes it start hurting all over again.

“Music is patterns, isn’t it?” his stepdad says. “Rhythm. Harmonies. Intuition, and you have that in spades. I’ve seen you work math problems, science problems; you see connections other people can’t begin to grasp, even while you’re barely trying. Damn, Paul, you can run circles around me. You’re _brilliant._ You know that, right? And I could be wrong, but I figure… aren’t there more ways to be an artist than just the literal one?”

“I…” Paul shrugs stiffly, about to slap away the compliment, finds his brain snagging on a thought. “I’m good at math but I don’t like it. It’s too rigid. It doesn’t… _flow_. Science, though, that’s different. Harder, but more fluid. More fun.” He bites his lip, wondering why that never occurred to him before. Did he dismiss a thing he might have loved just because it didn’t fit the image in his father’s head? He loves how dancing makes him feel alive, but what if something else could make him feel that way, too? “I - I know my grades should be better. _I_ can do better. I just, between training and rehearsals, there wasn’t enough time…” His stomach churns and his fingers twitch in his lap. That part of his life is gone, cracked apart on that stage like so many of his brittle human bones. He’ll have to find a new obsession; either that or lose his mind. “But I guess… there’ll be time now.” He swallows, the words sticking in his throat, but somewhere deep down, a small sliver of hope is sticking, too… because maybe, just maybe, being an artist is less about what you do than about who you are.

There's only one way to find out.

*

A hand tugs at his elbow and another one at his wrist, and neither would be enough to stop him knowing the person they belong to isn’t even _trying_ to force him, even though he most definitely could. Paul lets it stop him anyway, halting his advance on the viewscreen and the sharp, shadowed face facing them down as if the last word has already been said. It hasn’t.

“No,” he says, putting all his fear and rage into the word, not caring if it makes him sound manic. “You can’t ask this of us. We won’t do it. You have no right.”

Beside him, Straal steps in so they’re practically hip to hip, the fingers on Paul’s elbow squeezing in warning. “Why…?” he starts, but the man on the screen ignores it, his expression cold and dangerous and dripping with pride.

“No right?” he says. “Let me make something clear to you, Mister… Stamets, isn’t it?” The man’s eyes narrow, and the way his voice presses down on the ‘mister’ confirms all of Stamets’ preconceptions about military types. They all think Starfleet’s the beginning and end, that civilian research is just an afterthought - until it suits Starfleet’s purpose, like it does now. Of course there are exceptions; Paul is married to one, but Hugh is a doctor first and an officer second, whereas this one acts like he was born in uniform, and in Paul’s experience that never bodes well. “I don’t know if the news reached you in your cozy little cocoon of a lab, but there’s a war on out here. We’re looking for something to turn the tide in our favor, and you two may hold the key to that something. That means we need you. _You_ ’re supposed to be the geniuses around here; don’t tell me any of this is hard to grasp.”

“So what Starfleet needs, Starfleet takes?” Paul sneers. He folds his arms in front of his chest, struggling now to keep his anger inside; no point in expending energy on trying to intimidate this man. “That’s rich. I always thought the motto was peaceful exploration, but apparently, when things get hairy, that’s when your pretty principles stop holding water. So you’ll forgive me if this is failing to convince me to hand over a decade’s worth of research to the likes of you.”

“No one’s asking you to hand over a damn thing.” The impatience kindling in those ice-blue chips of eyes looks like it’s reaching dangerous proportions, and Paul finds himself struck by a perverse desire to find out what would happen if something lit the fuse. “For that matter, no one’s _asking_ you, period. So you got that bit right. Your research is useless to Starfleet without you two there to pursue it. So I’ll tell you how we do this: you’ll leave your lab and join us out here, where you’ll have the resources to test and perfect your work in the field, and we can argue principles and morality after you’ve seen the losses we’re taking.” He leans back, letting the words sink in.

Paul remembers to breathe only after several seconds, the sound raspy and unnatural in the silence. He must have blanked out somewhere around ‘leave your lab and join us’, which would have been a notion too absurd for words, except that nothing in the speaker’s bearing suggests a shred of doubt in the certainty of that outcome. Which, in itself, is enough to make every sinew in Paul’s body ache with the need to resist.

“Let me get this straight,” he says, somehow managing to keep his voice steady. He isn’t sure why Straal hasn’t spoken up yet - between the two of them, _Paul_ has the reputation of being the soft one - but he can’t let that break his momentum. “All my life I’ve heard it said, over and over again, that Starfleet’s mission is one of peace. Instead you’re telling me we all need to be warriors before we can earn the right to be heard?” He’s floundering now, the prospect of losing everything they worked for disrupting his ability to think. “Go to hell,” he whispers.

“War _is_ hell, Mr. Stamets.” The reply is a whisper, too. “And if you and your associate fail to see that, I’ll -”

“Look,” Straal cuts in, bodily stepping between Paul and the viewscreen and interrupting what sounded very much like the start of a threat. “Captain… Lorca, isn’t?” Straal’s head jerks subtly when Paul stirs behind him. _Let me,_ the movement says. “You say Starfleet needs an edge in this war, but what we’re building here, it’s not a weapon. Even if it could be weaponized - and it can’t, I assure you - there’s half a dozen laws that forbid it. Laws I can’t imagine Starfleet would break, so why is this project so important to them? To _you_?” he finishes, breathless. There’s an edge to his tone that almost sounds like excitement, but given the situation Paul can’t see how that would make sense.

Lorca is silent for a moment, leaning backwards in his chair as if sizing Straal up. “You’re joking, right? A new propulsion system, one that would allow us to jump anywhere, almost instantaneously? Imagine the tactical advantages it would give us. The lives it could save…”

“I’m sorry, did you say ‘save’?” Paul cuts in, from behind his friend’s back. “I thought you said ‘take’, but I must have misheard.” He edges closer to the screen again, ignoring Straal’s attempt to hush him with a nudge to the ribs. “Like we said, we’ll draft an agreement. Starfleet can have the drive once it’s ready -”

“Not good enough,” Lorca snaps. “People are dying. I thought I made that clear.”

“We didn’t start your war.” A strange kind of helplessness is starting to take hold of Paul. They’re running in circles and he can’t see a way out. “And now you’re asking us - no, _forcing_ us - to help you finish it? In the field, by trial and error, abandoning every safety net we built?”

Lorca flashes him a joyless grin. “Well done, Mr. Stamets. You’re starting to get the point at last.”

“No. Not just no but _hell_ no, and that's my last word on that -”

“ _In times of war, the law falls silent_ ,” Straal murmurs, his voice oddly reedy, and it’s the intensity behind it that makes Paul gulp down the rest of his words. He’s dimly aware of Lorca’s searching expression, but the only thing he can spare eyes for is his friend - because Paul has heard that tone of voice before, in the wake of every breakthrough, every hard-won revelation they’ve shared together. It’s a tone that means _I understand_ , and he’d never expected to be hearing it now, or see the doubt slowly fall away from Straal’s face.

“No,” Paul mutters again. This time it’s not Lorca he’s talking to. “I don’t believe it.  You’re not really considering -”

“I am.” Straal lifts his chin. “And I think you should, too. You’ve heard the same reports I have: the Klingons attack without warning now. Not just military targets but outposts, colonies. A ship with a working spore drive could save thousands of lives -”   

“And you’re naïve enough to think, once Starfleet has a working drive, they’ll only use it to evacuate some colonists in need?” Paul presses his nails into his palms, hating how desperate he’s sounding. “That’s a lie and he knows it.” He points a trembling finger at the man on the screen. “He’s manipulating us, both of us, and I…” His shoulders slump, the rage draining out of him at the conviction in Straal’s face. If there’s one thing the two of them have in common, it’s that once they’ve made up their minds, they’re both stubborn as hell. “I didn’t become a scientist for this,” he mutters, wrapping his arms around himself. “The word itself - _scientia_ \- it means _to know_. All I’ve ever aspired to was to understand -”

“And you call me naïve?” Straal’s voice is as gentle as the words are harsh. “Science isn’t divorced from reality, my friend, and neither are we.” A hand settles in the hollow between Paul’s shoulder blades, and it’s all he can do not to crack right there. “I need to do this. But if you can’t, or won’t… then maybe Captain Lorca will know a compromise when he sees it, and settle for having me.”

Lorca looks only moderately displeased, and Paul is left with the inescapable feeling that his friend just managed to save his skin. But he can’t let himself acknowledge it, or bring himself to accept Straal’s choice. Later, maybe, but not now, when all he wants is to get away from this mess. As he turns to walk off, torn between misery, distaste and relief, Lorca’s voice rings out after him.

“What if it’s you?”

Paul blinks, frozen in his tracks. “Excuse me?”

“What if it’s you we need?” Lorca says, and something in his tone of voice makes Paul’s stomach turn. “Say your colleague can’t pull this off without you. Say your contribution to this project would have been what turned the tide of war. Can you really turn away and live with that thought?”

“You’d be amazed at the things I can live with,” Paul says, the words feeling like they’re being ripped straight out of his chest. But the question struck a chord, and by the time he’s made it through the door, he’s already starting to wonder if he didn't just make the worst mistake of his life.

*

It had to catch up with him in the end. One moment, he’s walking alongside of Burnham, peppering her for info about Tyler and Mudd, the next he’s on his knees on the deck with no memory of how he got there, images churning inside his head.

“Hugh?” he says, confused, as a glimpse of white fabric flashes through his mind. But Hugh isn’t here. Paul had to leave him in engineering, phaser burns riddling his body and a great big hole in the center of his chest. Or, no, that wasn’t this loop but a few loops back. Five, maybe? Ten? He can’t keep it straight anymore. He blinks up into Burnham’s eyes - another flash, and she’s gone again, replaced by some other version of her, one that stares at him with an utter lack of comprehension, but no, no, he already went through all that, he already got Michael to understand. It’s the time loops screwing with his head, tricking his brain into mixing up past and present, but knowing that it’s happening doesn’t mean he has a way to fight it, even though he _needs_ to fight it ‘cause the ship depends on him and if he cracks then they’re all dead.

He comes back to himself propped up against a bulkhead, pressing at his temples with the heels of his hands.

“Lieutenant?” That’s Burnham, sounding concerned, but not implausibly so. He’s snapped out of it, then. For now, at least; there’s no telling what triggered this episode and whether or not it’ll happen again. “Lieutenant, are you with me?” He can hear her breath of relief when he manages to nod. And something else, too: a low, whirring noise that he recognizes instantly. Medical tricorder. Burnham must’ve gotten it from a first-aid station nearby. “Did you keep track of how many loops you’ve done?”

“Not… exactly,” Paul says. He tried at first, but after a dozen or so loops he figured there were better things to expend his energy on. “Fifty, sixty at the most?” He cracks open one eye, then the other, relieved when the throbbing in his skull doesn’t get worse. “I don’t see how it matters at this point.” Pause. “Does it?”

Burnham is giving him one of those unfathomable looks that make her look more Vulcan than most Vulcans do. “Fifty loops, thirty minutes each. That makes over twenty-four hours without sleep.”

Paul rolls his eyes. "Yes, except that’s not how this works. Time _resets_ every thirty minutes, remember? By your logic, I should be starving too, but Hugh and I met for dinner an hour ago and I promise you food’s the last thing on my mind.”

Burnham’s response is a tricorder waved in front of his face. “My point is, your body may not be hungry or tired, but your brain has been in a heightened state of activity all this time. Clearly it’s taking its toll. You need to rest.”

“No. No, no, no.” Paul pats at the air with both hands. The corridor undulates gently at the movement, but he ignores it and grits his teeth. “Every loop, Mudd is learning. What I need is to keep up.”

Burnham squints at something on the tricorder screen. “Do you remember what happened when you blanked out?”

Paul’s first impulse is to scoff - how can he answer what he doesn’t understand himself? - but the subtle tension in Michael’s voice makes him pause. She may not be remembering earlier loops, but she certainly understands how dire things are, and if it was him remaining in the dark and having to trust another crewman to fix things, he wouldn’t be taking it nearly as well as her.

“I saw… flashes,” he admits. “Glimpses of a previous loop. Disorienting, but not painful, and it’s passed for now.”

Burnham raises an eyebrow. “You remembered those things? Or - lived them?” At his look of consternation, she frowns. “It probably doesn’t matter. But I’m showing degradation of your neural pathways in a pattern consistent with -”

“Burnham.” He cuts her off. “Bottom line, please. There isn’t time.”

“Bottom line?” she repeats. “You’re exhausted. And - I can’t be sure, but I think, combined with the effects of the Tardigrade DNA, it’s triggering imbalances in your brain chemistry, disrupting your perception of time, which will certainly become a problem unless we stop it now.”

Paul stifles a grimace. “I see.”

“I’m no expert, of course. In the next loop, you should get Dr. Culber to -”

“No. We’re leaving Hugh out of this.” Paul starts to get to his feet, leaning heavily against the bulkhead. Burnham may be right; it’s getting harder to think with each passing loop, something crowding in at the edge of his senses that’s making him lose grip on reality itself. “We’d lose too much time, and I…” He shakes his head. No point in admitting out loud that he’s already seen Hugh die too many times. “Expert or not, I’ll take my chances on you.”

“In that case, I believe you should sleep.” She reaches out to catch his arm, ignoring the look he betrayal he throws her. “I understand this is difficult for you, but I doubt the universe will end because Paul Stamets decides to take a nap.”

“Was that a joke?” Paul says, trying to decide whether to risk shrugging off the steadying hand on his elbow. “God, I think that _was_ a joke. Are you all right?” At her blank expression, he shakes his head. “And no, of course the universe doesn’t need me, but right now Discovery does. What if I can’t afford to miss the rest of this loop?”

“I can’t answer that.” Burnham gives him a long, unreadable look. “But you are trying to protect the people on this ship, and I’m trying to protect you - both for their sake and yours. I assure you, I don’t enjoy being in a position where I can only contribute indirectly to the survival of this crew.”

“You are contributing,” Paul says, picking up on the sudden anguish in her voice, subtle but impossible to miss. “And believe me, I’d trade with you in a heartbeat. I’ve seen this ship blown up enough times I can’t even remember how some of us died. I’d like nothing more than to get off this ride.” He swallows, hard. The last time he saw Hugh, was it before they burned up in a warp core breach or before Hugh took a phaser to the chest? How can he possibly not know that anymore? “I told you before that we can’t go see Dr. Culber. I didn’t tell you the reason for it is that I can’t stand to watch him die again.”

“Nor I my captain,” Burnham murmurs. “But she still does, in my dreams, almost every night.” She blinks, like she’s surprised by the words, or maybe the fact she let them leave her mouth. “I tried to protect her, but ended up causing her death. I don’t want the same to happen with this crew - but it doesn’t hinge on me this time. Should your condition deteriorate…” She trails to a halt in the middle of the corridor, looking lost. “I don’t believe you wish to trade with me, Lieutenant,” she says softly. “It’s not in your nature to shirk responsibility. And of course, you’re right to be skeptical of me. Last time I made a gut decision, it ended in war.”

“Hey - no, no.” Paul twists around till they’re face to face, takes Burnham’s shoulders between his hands. “That isn’t true. Your last gut decision saved Sarek’s life. The one before saved our Tardigrade. I think…” He waits for her to meet his eyes, manages a weary smile. “I think, as protectors go, I could do far worse. I trust you, Burnham. Just tell me where to go.”

Burnham’s quarters are empty when they arrive, and Paul lowers himself on the mattress that isn’t covered with five different sets of party clothes. “Not yours, I take it?”

“Tilly’s.” Michael gives him a tiny grin, some of the doubt having left her eyes. “Here,” she says, holding up a hypospray from where she was rummaging around in a cabinet. “Mild sedative. Dr. Culber prescribed it to me after I first arrived.” She looks at him for permission, then presses the hypo to the side of his neck.

Paul nods, feeling the cold tingle against his skin, the prospect of sleep something of a relief now he’s finally given into the thought. “How much time left?”

“Fifteen minutes, give or take. It’s not much, but it’ll have to do.” Burnham looks down at him from the side of the bed. “I’ll, um, stay. Make sure Tilly doesn’t come in and wake you. Or…” She hesitates. “I can call Dr. Culber, if you prefer. There’s still time, and you’ll be out cold anyway, so you won’t even know it when we all, ah…” She cuts herself off, looking pained.

“You’ll do, Burnham.” Paul sags onto the bed, his voice already wobbling as the sedative kicks in. “You’ll do.”

*

It’s strange, bordering on comical, how protective Tilly gets. Maybe it’s knowing she’s the only one he’s told; not that she left him with much of a choice. That, or she’s worried that the next time his brain gets jumbled, it might not simply snap back into place. Which isn’t as unlikely as it sounds. They haven’t been doing that many jumps, but every time, it’s a little worse. Or, well, the side effects are worse but - thanks to Tilly - he’s hiding it better, so overall maybe that counts as a win. 

It doesn’t feel like a win now. Not with Lorca roasting them over the intercom, asking why the hell it took them so long to jump. At least it wasn’t life or death this time, just another drill waiting for the landing party to call in - say what you will about Lorca, he isn’t the type to sit on his hands - but judging by the man’s reaction, it might as well have been.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” Tilly says again, frantically mime-ing at Paul to keep his mouth shut. She’s already made sure there are no prying eyes, under the guise of the Captain wanting to talk to them alone, and Paul is grateful for the privacy when he clambers out of the spore chamber, swaying. “Like I said, I - I must have gotten the calibration sequence wrong. I promise it won’t happen again.”

“I hope for both our sakes it won’t, Cadet.” The warning behind Lorca’s tone is obvious even over the intercom. Paul starts to cut in, but Tilly gives him a _don’t-you-dare_ look and slashes a silent hand across her throat. “And where the hell is Stamets? It’s him I wanted, not you.”

Paul braces himself against the console, meets Tilly’s eyes across the kaleidoscope of screens. “The Lieutenant… is taking a moment.” Her face betrays every emotion she’s fighting to keep out of her voice. “We always give him a few minutes to recover from a jump.” It’s a reasonable statement, subtly massaging the Captain’s conscience without making it seem like there’s anything wrong, but Paul still braces himself; it wouldn’t be the first time Lorca refuses to take a hint. Then he hears the telltale rush of escaping breath, and knows he’s off the hook - for now.

“Fine,” Lorca grumbles. “Tell him to report to me later.” And the channel cuts out.

Paul allows himself a sigh of relief, then straightens and shakes his head. “Tilly -”

“You look well,” she cuts him off, her demeanor way too sprightly for someone who just shouldered the blame for a mistake she didn’t make. “Or, um, maybe not _well_ , but... okay? Better than the last time you stepped out of that thing, but admittedly then you looked like sh-”

“Thank you, Cadet,” Paul says, not moving a muscle in his face as he watches Tilly’s ears turn pink. “And yes, I suppose it went well enough if we ignore the little snag where, thirty seconds before making that jump, I was convinced the ship had been compromised and it was an impostor, not the Captain, talking to us. If you hadn’t intervened…” He sags against the console, trying not to think about how chillingly real it had felt. If Tilly hadn’t been there, seen what was happening and persuaded him to jump, he’d have been exposed for sure. Which makes it even less fair that she’d be the one to pay for his screwup. “But you didn’t have to take the blame. You know Lorca, he won’t forget -”

“Sure I did.” Tilly gives him one of her most radiant grins. “I was the one who got you to spill your secret, wasn’t I? Least I can do is help keep it safe.” She catches a lock of hair that escaped her attempt to tame it, nervously tucks it back behind an ear. “Besides, you said I’d be a captain one day, and captains should always put their crew first, right?”

That statement is disturbing in so many ways that Paul can barely wrap his mind around them all. Including his own private conviction that Lorca, who is the only captain either of them has ever had, must have a whole damn _list_ of things he’d put before his crew, so whoever Tilly got that idea from, it can’t have been him.

“Okay…” Paul starts, spreading his hands just like he would if he was walking her through a science problem, trying to ignore how out of his depth he feels. “First, you’re not a captain yet, so for now, that makes me responsible for you and not the other way around. Second, I never said the thing you think I did. For a moment, after we jumped, I _believed_ you were the captain; everything else is conjecture. Third…” He suppresses a pang of guilt at the way Tilly tries to keep the disappointment off her face. “This isn’t right. I can’t let you put your career on the line to cover for me. That’s the exact reason I’ve been keeping this from Hugh, and it’s even more wrong of me to ask it of _you_ when -”

“You haven’t asked,” Tilly interrupts. “I chose it. I knew I was meddling but I made you tell me anyway, and now I have to face the consequences. I’m not sorry, so neither should you be.”

Talking like this, flushed and breathless but vibrating with conviction, there’s nothing in Tilly that reminds him of the jittery kid who joined the crew a couple of months ago. For a moment, Paul catches himself thinking she’d make a better captain than Lorca will ever be - but that’s a thought he’d better keep to himself, for more reasons than one. “I appreciate that, Cadet, but you’re forgetting one thing. I chose this too. I injected myself with the Tardigrade DNA compound. I never asked permission to anyone.”

“Well, yes, but…” She frowns. “You did it because the Tardigrade was dying, right? Because someone had to save the captain and the crew. You couldn’t ask it from anyone else, so you did it yourself; that’s not really a choice.”

Paul shrugs, tries to breathe past the sudden tightness in his chest. “If you put it that way, are any of the choices we make really choices at all?”

“Some of them are.” Tilly nods vigorously. “That’s what makes them so precious, see? I’m choosing to cover for you, for as long as it takes. That’s a given, and I’m not going to change my mind. But don’t you think…” She takes a deep breath, chewing her lip in thought. “Don’t you think Dr. Culber deserves to make that choice, too? What have you told him, anyway?”

“Just that the jumps give me headaches,” Paul mutters, and then wonders why he’s answering the question instead of telling her to mind her own business for once. But the answer’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s because Tilly _cares_ , and it’s not possible to have a conversation with the kid and not come out of it with at least some part of you wanting to care, too. “Which is the truth, just not all of it.” He sucks down a breath. “God, I… need to tell him, don’t I? Here I am, preaching to Burnham about how honesty is everything, and I can’t even take my own advice.”

“You wanted to protect him.” Tilly’s tone is full of sympathy. “But knowing him a little, I think he’d want a shot at protecting you too. I think… letting him would be good for you both.” A hand brushes his arm, ever so lightly; Paul flinches, but doesn’t pull away. “Does it help that you can tell him you’ll probably be okay? I mean, when - _if_ \- I make Captain, you’ll still be around to see it, right? Otherwise you couldn’t have known I was going to be...” Her expression dissolves into a frown.

“I don’t know,” he answers, truthfully. “I don’t think that’s how it works. I saw a possible future, maybe, but I can’t be sure if it will happen, or what my part in it will be.”

“But you saw _a possible future_.” It’s like the sun just rose in Tilly’s eyes. “If there’s a universe out there in which we’re going to be okay, then who’s to say it can’t be this one? We don’t know, of course, but the point is, we can have faith. That future isn’t lost to us.”

“Going all Tolkien on me now, Cadet?” Paul says, then has to smile when her eyebrows bunch up. “20th century fantastical literature. You should look it up someday; I think you’ll enjoy it.” He manages what he hopes is a conspiratorial grin. “‘All we have to decide is what to do what the time that’s given to us.’ Still relevant, no?”

“Sounds about right, Sir,” Tilly says, and the hope in her eyes almost makes him believe he actually got something right today.

*

“Captain wants to see you.” Hugh delivers it in his driest doctor-patient voice, leaning over to squint at something outside Paul’s field of vision on the screens behind the biobed. “I told him I’d rather keep you here, make sure there’s no delayed reaction, but he didn’t seem too interested in hearing that, and I expect you won’t be either, so you’re free to go.”

There’s no anger in the statement; just a guardedness so subtle that it’s breaking Paul’s heart, even though he knows he brought it on himself. It’s not in Hugh’s nature to keep him at arm’s length. Usually, that’s Paul’s vice, not his. And regaining consciousness after those 133 jumps, with a migraine from hell but - shockingly - his wits still intact, there was no way he could have missed the relief in Hugh’s eyes, or mistaken the fondness in them for anything else.

But that alone won’t cut it now. The ball is in Paul’s court, and it’s both the blessing and the curse of loving an M.D. that they both know sometimes the pain has to get worse before it gets better. Drain the poison out, or the wound won’t heal.

“Hugh,” he starts, his hands pale and clumsy as they fiddle with the sheet covering his legs. He’s never felt nervous around Hugh before. The fact that he does now is as clear a sign as any that he truly, thoroughly fucked up. “I _was_ going to tell you, but…”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Hugh doesn’t flinch, exactly, but the almost hopeful gaze he gave Paul at the mention of his name becomes clouded, then drops to the floor.

Paul presses his lips together, shakes his head in exasperation at himself. “That didn’t come out right. I mean, not that it isn’t true, but - it’s not an excuse. I know that. I’m just trying -” He lets out a shaky breath. “Hear me out. Please.”

The nod Hugh gives him isn’t exactly an open invitation, but it’s sincere, and that’s something. More than something. It’ll have to do.

“It was… wonderful at first, you know? Traveling the mycelial network. It was like everything I’d ever dreamed of, and better. I could barely believe my luck.” He pauses, struggling briefly to recapture the feeling, but shakes it off when Hugh gives him a _‘go on’_ look. “The first time something felt wrong was during Mudd’s time loops. But that seemed par for the course, and anyway, whoever I told would forget in the next loop, so in the end I just… didn’t bother. And the symptoms passed, so no harm done, right? Except the next time we jumped, it happened again.”

“Okay… wait.” At one point, Hugh has gone from standing up to sitting perched on the edge of the biobed. “You’re saying ‘it happened again’. Not to be deliberately obtuse, but so far you haven’t told me what that even means.”

“I... haven’t?” Paul scowls, gingerly rubs his still-fuzzy head. It’s hopeless to try to keep track of the details of what he did or didn’t already do. “It’s... hard to describe. Like I’m shifting between different realities, different versions of what I know to be true. The details fade, but when it happens, it feels as real as this conversation does now. And I… can’t control it. At all.” Putting it all into words, just getting it out without having to censor himself, should have been soothing, a weight off his chest. Instead, his throat closes up as it hits him again: something big and unintelligible is happening to him, something that might be dangerous, or might make him a danger to others, or both, and he’s been keeping it from the person who cares the most, out of… Out of what, really? He bites the inside of his cheek. “At the time, it made perfect sense. Telling you the truth would’ve meant forcing you to choose between Starfleet’s best interests and mine, and I couldn’t bear to put you in that position, so I… kept it to myself.”

Hugh is sitting quiet as a statue. “I see.”

"That, and as long as I didn’t admit it... I could convince myself that maybe it wasn’t real, you know? Maybe it would pass, and things would go back to being wonderful again, if I only managed not to tell…”

“But you told Tilly.” There’s no judgment in the words. If anything, Hugh’s expression has softened, one hand settling down on the edge of the bed.

“Oh, Tilly noticed all by herself.” Paul has to stifle an unexpected surge of pride. “And then made it her mission to drag it out of me.”

“She’s a good kid,” Hugh says, with a deepening frown at the monitors. Still doctoring, always doctoring, even now, but maybe that’s a good sign. It’s if he ever stopped that things would _really_ be wrong.

“She is,” Paul agrees.

“And she looks up to you. Please tell me you didn’t get her into trouble.”

Pained grimace. “Nothing irreparable - I think.”

"Oh, for God’s sakes, Paul…”

“I’m going to make it right. Come clean to Lorca about what’s happening to me, tell him Tilly was only covering for me because I asked. I meant to tell you first, then him, but the timing was never right… Or maybe I was stalling, I don’t know. I never meant for you to hear it from someone else. I wasn’t thinking straight. I’ve been selfish. I’m sorry.”

“Mm.” Hugh’s expression is studiously neutral, apart from a muscle twitching at the edge of his mouth.

“‘ _Mm’_?” Paul echoes. He isn’t sure what he was expecting; of course an apology won’t miraculously fix things, but he was hoping for _some_ reaction, at least. “Was that a diagnosis, Doctor?” he says, suddenly desperate to lighten the mood.

“You want a diagnosis?” Hugh says. There’s an intensity in his eyes that wasn’t there a couple of seconds ago; as if some of that hard-fought discipline finally broke down, exposing a glimpse of the passion churning underneath. “You’re a stubborn, brilliant, occasionally clueless, oft-insufferable specimen of a man, capable of excesses of selflessness and self-absorption rarely observed in this mortal coil, and after all the years I’ve stuck with you, you ought to have your head examined for even _thinking_ I’d put Starfleet’s needs ahead of yours.” It comes tumbling out like a dam has burst, breathless and fevered and _real_ , and Paul lets it wash over him like an embrace, because in a way that’s what it is. When the flood of words stops, Hugh’s hand is hovering between them, closing in to cup his jaw. “I’m on your side, Paul,” he mutters. “I’m always on your side. It’s my curse and my privilege and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Paul turns his face into the touch, breathing in the clean, familiar scent he associates with Hugh and sickbay and freshly replicated medical gowns. “I know.” He takes a breath, lets it back out in a long, shaky sigh. “I know. I just… couldn’t ask you to make that sacrifice.”

“Says the man who claims to have been experiencing present and future simultaneously, and has the holes in his white matter to show for it, all because of the sacrifice _he_ made,” Hugh shoots back, but what sharpness there is in it tastes more of fear than of anything else.

“Yes. About that…” Paul swallows. He pulls up his legs while he straightens against the pillow, Hugh’s palm falling away from his face. “When we get to Starbase 46… I need to find out what’s happening to me. Those micro-jumps, it was like living a thousand lives all at once. All those threads, weaving together, pulling apart again, dragging parts of me along in so many directions I couldn't remember what it was like to be whole. It was exquisite… and, to be honest, it scared me to death.” He flexes his hands, resisting the temptation to wrap them around himself.

“It’s okay,” Hugh says, voice thick with the kind of tenderness Paul still doesn't know what he ever did to deserve. “It took you long enough. Now you know how the rest of us felt from day one.”

Paul almost can’t imagine it. The first time he jumped, he felt larger than life; it’s just that the more jumps he makes, the smaller and more fragmented he seems to be becoming, and maybe that scares him more than everything else. If there are infinite possibilities, then what’s the value of any of them? Does a single thing they do even matter at all?

“I used to think… nothing would ever frighten me like the thought of my work being used to wage war. But the war's become regular fare, and this…” He shivers. “This is anything but.”

“It is,” Hugh agrees, the tips of his fingers circling Paul’s wrist. “But you’re the most brilliant man I know, even with a couple of synapses fried, and I’m not too shabby myself, so…” The fondest of smiles spills over into his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere. We’ll figure it out.”

***

It matters.

Entering the chamber for the last time, Paul has never been surer of anything in his life. This might just be one universe among many, but it’s their universe, and this life is _their_ life and it matters, same as any other life they’ve defended, or lost. One more jump, and then he’ll choose this universe and stick with it once and for all.

God, he’s tired, though. He could use the rest.

He’s not going to close his eyes. Hugh is just a few feet away, waiting for him to come home, and Paul isn’t prepared to let him out of his sight. Not him, or Tilly, or anyone else he took this journey with. Travel the network one more time, then say goodbye.

He leans back, still smiling, as he meets Hugh’s eyes. Let them see him smile this time. Let him keep the fear at bay, and be grateful that he got this chance and believe they’re going to be all right.

The switch is flipped. Unseen, unheard, the saucer spins.

And then there’s pain, white-hot and blinding and as bad as any he’s ever felt in his life, but his mind is already moving past it even as his body is caught in its grip.

Infinite. Infinite joy, anguish, understanding, disbelief, belief. The human mind isn’t made for this, but it’s trying anyway, flipping through permutations like the pages of a picture book. In this universe, his body is screaming, and in another one it’s making love, and in another one it’s dancing, leaping and whirling in pure joy. Somewhere he’s dying, and somewhere else he’s dead, and somewhere he’s a father, and there’s a universe where he never went to war and one where he never fell in love. He never had the accident and he’s a dancer. His dad never died but he found science anyway, not regretting the choice even once. And throughout it all, the faster he spins away from himself, still, always, that slender thread connecting him to the world that’s his, shaped in whatever small ways by the choices he made. A world that matters, because either everything is important or nothing is, and Paul isn’t ready to accept the latter - not with Hugh and the rest of his crewmates on the other side of that glass.

In some universe, they’re going to be all right. He’s just going to have to cling to the hope that it’s this one.

He promised Hugh La Bohème, after all.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I borrowed the title from RENT... It felt fitting somehow. <3


End file.
